Adam In Control

The kid was openly leering at him, and that was infuriating enough; Adam hated being stared at by fags, feeling their eyes running over his hard, muscular body—it always kindled his lust/rage. But there was something about this particular boy…

He was lean and tall, not quite Adam’s height, but close. He was leaning back against the wall, one knee out with the foot on the wall behind him, watching the people entering and leaving the gym; it was almost as if he was cruising for a fuck.

The boy’s black Adidas Chile 62 tracksuit had an eye-catching shininess similar to leather; the way it clung to the slut’s lithe young body was the first thing Adam had noticed. The jacket was open; under it was a white t-shirt with an Adidas logo just barely visible. The little punk hadn’t been brand-loyal all the way down to his feet, though, Adam noticed—he was sporting a pair of black and white Nike Vapormax 97’s.

It was the faggot’s face that aroused Adam’s ire the most—handsome, arrogant, topped with a wavy mass of hair almost identical to Adam’s own shade of copper. It drew the sexual sadist’s attention. He had no idea what a homo dressed like a scally punk was doing here coming on to him, but he wanted to see that face, terrified and suffering, as it died.

So he swallowed his anger, the bitter taste somehow making his cock swell, and approached the homo scum with a smile on his own strikingly masculine face.

“Hey there,” the kid said once Adam was closer. “I been scopin’ ya out for a coupla days.”

“Yeah?” Adam replied nonchalantly.

“Yeah,” the boy said, “And I think you’d be perfect.”

“For what?”

“A little breath control play.”

Adam paused for a moment. “Yeah? Sounds like faggot shit to me. That what ya into, boy?”

The punk grinned, giving Adam what was supposed to be a come-hither look; it made the youth look somewhat moronic. “I like a little danger—and Master’s away, so the pup will play…” He leered hard at the muscle-bound stud.

Adam was intrigued and enraged. Fuckin’ cunt was such a homo he needed a master. “That explain yer getup?” he asked, giving the slut’s Chile 62 tracksuit a once-over.

“Hell yeah,” the kid said proudly, “Sir’s a skinhead; he likes to see me in this. Likes to use me and abuse me while I’m wearing it. Think you can do that to me too?”

Again, Adam paused. He was used to hunting down and snuffing his own fuckmeat; even the stupid cunts who came onto him didn’t want more than an assfuck. The psycho killer hadn’t had anyone begging to be hurt—this could be downright fun.

Or would be if it didn’t involve a cocksuckin’ fag pervert. Little motherfucker wanted abuse? It deserved it and Adam was more than willing to comply. He hadn’t been trolling for meat, but he wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity to rid the world of another useless queer. Especially one asking to be abused.

Still, he needed to be careful. “Why me?” he asked.

“Cause you look like you’d enjoy it,” the kid said. “See, Sir’s good—fuck, when he makes me lick his boots, I wanna cum—but that don’t mean I don’t wanna play sometimes…”

“So you want someone new to get ya off,” Adam finished the sentence. “How long you been watchin’ me?”

“Since the beginnin’ of the week—once I found out Sir was gonna leave town today.”

The kid writhed happily. “Nossir,” he said breathily, ginning wildly in pleasure. He’d picked the right dude, no question. Just the verbal abuse was getting him off; the bulge in his trackies was obvious to anyone within fifteen feet.

This might work. Adam was suspicious of a situation which he hadn’t set up himself, but this looked legit—the punk fuck was seriously coming on to him. “You got someplace to go?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the kid said, “We can go back to our place.”

“Whaddaya mean, ‘our’ place?”

“Well, Sir’s place. But I live there too.”

Not for long you won’t, Adam thought. “And what’ll happen if ‘Sir’ finds out you been playin’?”

Connor’s dark hazel-green eyes widened slightly, but his cock twitched so hard it rustled the shiny polyester tent over his crotch. Adam grinned and the kid relaxed somewhat. “I’ll pull out first—the car, I mean, heh, heh—and you can follow me.”

Adam followed him back to where he’d parked. He noticed the silver 2017 Mercedes E400 parked next to his car; it certainly hadn’t been there when he pulled in—he wouldn’t have parked next to it. His doors and its were too long to be side-by-side in the gym’s narrow parking spaces.

He let Connor pull out of his space before getting into his own car, then got into his own and followed. Once out of the parking lot, the kid headed east; it took about twenty minutes to reach his destination, a loft condo in a refurbished warehouse near the train tracks.

There was an open parking lot in the back of the building; Adam went to the far end to park. He approached the building slowly, carefully scanning the entryway and the façade to confirm there weren’t any cameras. There was surprisingly little security, although the door could only be opened by a chip card; it had to be used to activate the elevator, too.

Adam took note. That piece of info would come in handy later.

The condo was on the fourth floor—and it seemed to be one of only two on the entire floor that was occupied. Inside, the place was very Urban Modern—brick walls, concrete floor, exposed piping and ductwork—and very new.

“No—Sir’s, uh, not from here. He’s got a job to do, then he’s goin’ home. And he’s takin’ me with him.”

Adam knew better. Connor had been turning on a lamp as he spoke; when the dim light flashed across the open space, the smile on Adam’s face was barely visible. The kid was simply too far away to see the wicked glint in the killer’s cold blue eyes.

What he could see, even in the semi-darkened living room, was Adam’s phenomenal physique. If Connor’s shiny Adidas tracksuit had been eye-catching, Adam’s own workout gear was not far behind. He sported a white Lycra V-neck tank top that appeared to be painted onto his broad chest. The deeply-cut neck allowed his abundant red-gold chest hair to spill out, while his powerfully muscled arms were admirably displayed.

Below the waist, Adam had on a pair of black polyester gym shorts that hung to just above the knee; Connor couldn’t see the stud’s thighs, but the thick slabs of muscles in his calves were obvious enough. On his feet were a pair of Nike Air Max2 kicks in a bright, almost neon, yellow.

It wasn’t that Connor hadn’t noticed how Adam had been dressed earlier; he’d just been too wrought up by the anxiety of approaching the stud in person to take in the details.

Adam, in the meantime, glanced around the room. He’d already assimilated what he needed to know about Connor—just another fuckin’ homo perv that thought it was worthy of his cock. All he needed now was the right place to teach it its lesson. A place where they could have…a little alone time.

“This y’all’s shit?” he asked abruptly. Startled, Connor jerked. “Uh, uh—no, not the furniture or the…well, the personal stuff is ours. Sir ain’t gonna be here long. This is one of the model units, I think…”

“So where’s the bedroom, faggot?”

Connor flushed, but his expression made it clear that it was with pleasure. “This way,” he chirped happily, leading his killer to the place where he was going to die.

The bedroom—there was only one, it seemed—was partitioned off from the main living space by a series of pseudo-Japanese sliding screens. Made of flimsy black plastic inset with squares of glossy translucent polyester and running on a track, they managed to connote an aura of cheapness while providing no privacy whatsoever. Adam started to realize why so few units were occupied…

But that didn’t matter. The room itself was surprisingly small, with a double bed against the far wall. The right wall was solid glass, looking out onto the train tracks and the river beyond, sluggish, shallow, and stinking with algae in the summer heat. The sun, finally setting after a sweltering day, glinted greenly off the thick organic stew.

To the left was a dresser; next to it was a closet with mirrored sliding doors. In the far corner was a small desk with an empty laptop docking station and an adjustable high-backed desk chair on casters.

Connor had flicked on the lights when he came in. There was a small lamp on the single nightstand, another one on the dresser, and the overhead lights in the ceiling fan. The bulbs were evidently fluorescent; everything was dim at first but gradually became brighter.

The punk fucker took the initiative, his presumption stoking Adam’s psychotic rage. Connor had already snagged something surreptitiously from a drawer in the nightstand; the dumbass cunt thought that Adam hadn’t seen it, but the clinking of metal alone was enough to tell the experienced sadist that the kid had brought out a pair of handcuffs. Now, he grabbed the chair from the desk and wheeled it to the only open space in the small room, between the bed and the closet, which were separated by about six feet.

Sitting in the chair, Connor extended his right hand, the cuffs dangling from his index finger. “You c’n put these on me if ya want…” he led off. Adam waited, savoring his rage; he knew there was more to come. The pansy was gonna suffer for this, big time.

If he’d been less of a horny cockpig, Connor might have noticed the somehow chilling look of satisfaction that crossed Adam’s face. He lifted his Lycra shirt just enough to grasp the waistband of his shorts and, jerking them down, kicked them to one side.

Underneath, he still wore the lining, also Lycra, in black and yellow—the same shade of yellow as his Nikes. As Connor stared in awe at the massive shaft of manmeat so clearly outlined in every detail in Adam’s crotch, the sex killer grinned.

“You lose yer bet, asswipe,” he chuckled. Approaching the eager slut, he grabbed the handcuffs and secured the homo’s arms behind the back of the chair. Slowly turning the chair to face the mirrored closet door, Adam stood behind it and grinned at their reflection.

Adam wasn’t one to give into requests, but since this piece of meat was damn near snuffing itself, his curiosity was aroused. Opening the desk drawer, he found a pair of leather gloves, thin, tight and smooth.

“Put ‘em on!” Connor’s tone was more a plea than a command. Smirking maliciously, Adam complied, slipping the tight, supple gloves onto his powerful hands. Turning around, he stalked ominously back to the helpless kid.

The faggot was staring at Adam’s crotch again, his large dark eyes sliding up and down the length of the Lyrca-covered shaft and lingering over the well-defined cock head. The hardbodied psycho felt the familiar bloodlust welling up within him, the desire to put this little fuck down, hard, and then own its corpse by filling it with cum.

But of course, before that happened, it needed to be made worthy to receive his cock. All the faggotry had to be purged from the meat’s soul, and the soul could only be purged by suffering.

“Damn, dude, I can’t wait to service that dick,” Connor gasped breathily, “Sure hope a little breath control play will make you as hard as it does me!”

Taking his place behind the chair again, Adam used the mirror to maintain eye contact with the fuckmeat. “Ya wanna know what ya gotta do to earn it, bitch?”

“Yessir! Please, sir!” Connor squealed.

“You gotta die,” Adam said flatly, and slapped one of his big, strong hands over Connor’s face, closing off the boy’s nose and mouth simultaneously, the smooth leather making an air-tight seal.

It took no great effort to stand there and hold the kid’s head; the punk didn’t even start to struggle until near the one-minute mark. His dick responded long before that, though; almost instantly, it was throbbing visibly beneath the shiny trackies. After about two minutes, though, Connor’s muffled grunting increased and he began to jerk his head about. Adam let go.

The meat wasn’t suffering; it was enjoying itself.

“Le-lemme go a s-sec,” Connor gasped out as he recovered his breath, “Th-that was so fuck-fuckin’ hot…”

“I’m gettin’ tired of you orderin’ me around,” Adam growled in a deep bass tone, but he unlocked one of the cuffs, leaving the set to dangle off the boy’s left wrist. Connor wriggled with pleasure at the rough rumble of the top’s voice. Swiftly pulling his hands around to his lap, he whipped out his long, pulsing boycock and began stroking his shaft.

“Call me ‘Ghost’,” he moaned, “That’s what Sir calls me…”

“You goddam piece a’ faggot shit,” Adam said coldly. He reached down and grabbed Connor’s right wrist and jerked it violently upward, then back towards himself, bringing up his knee at the same time to use as a lever. The sadistic alpha felt his own cock swell as he broke Connor’s arm; it happened so fast that the punk heard the wet splintering sound of his radius and ulna snapping before the pain hit him.

The kid’s pale face went even whiter as the shock hit him; he opened his mouth and automatically inhaled—but before he could scream, Adam punched him twice in quick succession. This first blow landed in his soft flat gut and drove all the air out of his lungs with a loud squeak. The second punch popped him in the face, splitting his bottom lip and bruising his cheek.

As the meat slumped back in the chair, moaning and stunned, Adam reached down and grabbed the collar of the kid’s t-shirt. Twisting it tightly, he used it to single-handedly hoist Connor of out the chair. Holding the dazed youth up to his face, his Vapormax kicks dangling in mid-air, the killer stared directly into the boy’s wide, scared eyes.

“Ghost, huh? That’s about right, fuckmeat. That’s exactly what the fuck you are—a ghost. Yer fuckin’ dead, man—that’s what it takes to get my dick. I gotta torture the faggotry outta ya before I can fuck yer meat, see? So, yeah—yer gonna get ghosted. ‘Ghost’ is fuckin’ great!” He laughed, a deep, hearty sound.

Connor found it chilling, but he was in too much pain to know why. He didn’t even know what the fuck had happened, but this fucker had broken his arm oh my god it hurts so goddam bad—

There was a shearing, ripping sound and Connor’s Adidas t-shirt gave way, the thin cotton unable to support the youth’s weight any longer. As it tore open, the kid tumbled to the ground at Adam’s feet, still in his track jacket but now bare-chested under it. The muscle-bound killer tossed the shredded piece of fabric aside. Straddling the prone youth, he bent down, clamped a hand around his neck, and lifted the punk back up.

Connor screamed as his broken arm flopped about. “Shaddap!” Adam snarled, backhanding the kid brutally, blackening his left eye. “You need this, asswipe. Pain’s good for the soul, remember? An’ by the time I’m done with ya, yer soul is gonna be so pure it’ll even be worthy to receive my seed.”

He jammed the boy back down into the chair. Stepping behind it, he again faced the reflection of the two of them in the mirror. This time, he used both hands to seal off the punk’s nose and mouth. Connor’s frantic eyes could just barely be seen over the top of his gloved hands.

This time, the kid’s reaction was much more immediate—as Adam expected; after all, this time the meat knew it wasn’t a game. Connor twisted and writhed in the chair, trying to slip out of Adam’s crushing grip on his skull, but it was useless. His legs kicked and drummed on the floor, the heels of his Nikes leaving scuff marks on the wood.

“Hey, fuckwad,” Adam whispered in the boy’s ear, “See how yer cock is twitchin’? Means there’s still too much faggot left in ya, so we gotta keep going.”

Connor was long familiar with the erotic sensations of oxygen deprivation; he knew that as the crushing pain in his lungs and the pounding pressure in his head intensified, his dick would only get harder and harder. This motherfucker was seriously gonna kill him—

Adam smiled as he heard the faint muffled squeaks that were the only outward signs of Connor’s screams. “What’s that—ya wanna safe word?” he chuckled maliciously, “Ok, cocksucker—yer safe word is ‘die’. Once ya do that, I’ll let go.”

The fuckmeat still hadn’t its proper position as Adam’s cumrag. The room was filled with a loud jangling sound as Connor’s left hand, with the handcuffs still attached, clawed helplessly at his face, his scrambling fingers not finding any purchase on the smooth surface of the black leather gloves. In panicked desperation, he slung his hand around to the right side of his face, where Adam was bent by his ear. Adam was too far away for Connor’s hand to reach, but the handcuffs, swinging out with momentum, managed to clip the alpha on the chin.

The impact wasn’t severe; it didn’t even break the skin, but it startled, then enraged the psychotic killer. Releasing Connor’s head, he stood up. As the boy coughed and heaved, sucking in lungfuls of air, Adam grabbed his left hand and bent his index finger all the way back, snapping it at the first joint.

“WHA TH’ FUCK?!?” Connor screeched, lack of oxygen making his voice high and reedy. Adam calmly popped him in the face, a single sucker-punch right from the shoulder into Connor’s nose, breaking it with a loud crunch. Turning his attention back to the unlucky youth’s hand, he grabbed the middle finger and wrenched it brutally backwards.

Connor screamed again—no words this time, just a loud, inarticulate wail of agony. “Ya still likin’ it, faggot?” he hissed, his cold eyes slitted in anger, “Does the thought of bein’ close to death still get ya off? Cause you’re close, ya worthless human cumdump, you’re so close to death I betcha can taste it, cantcha?”

The boy opened his eyes and turned his strained face, gray with shock, towards his tormentor. This wasn’t what he’d wanted at all; he just wanted a little play…Sir wouldn’t have actually hurt him…

“P-ple-please…” was all he could get out.

“Please what, homo?” Adam sneered. “Already toldja, the meat don’t call the shots. Looks like you ain’t as ready to be honored by my load as I’d thought. You got faggotry rooted deep down in yer soul, motherfucker, an’ I’m gonna make damn sure I get it all out.”

He paused for a moment, then smiled grimly. “This is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me, son.”

He took hold of Connor’s left arm in the same way he had his right, except this time, he placed his knee right on the kid’s elbow joint and bent the arm backwards from there. There was a gristly snapping sound, like tearing a chicken leg form a carcass, and the arm hung limp at an awkward angle while Connor’s shriek spiraled into the upper registers, making his voice crack and leaving him to wheeze and gasp almost soundlessly.

Adam stepped in front of the chair, crossed his arms, and contemplated the meat. Connor writhed impotently in the chair, utterly defenseless with two broken arms. The meat’s slim, smooth torso glistened with sweat; the air was rank with testosterone and manscent. As Adam watched the kid’s slick, flat abdomen heave with pain, he noticed a tattoo on the kid’s belly. It looked like a robot, or maybe a cactus with a face.

Whatever, Adam thought dismissively; maybe it’d help ID the corpse later. His own cock was pulsating on a regular basis, and that meant that it was time for the final act of purification. He smiled broadly, a pleasant and friendly expression on his face.

“Hey, Ghost? Ya still with me, man?” he asked kindly, stepping forward and patting the boy on the cheek. Connor had stopped writhing and remained slumped in the chair, moaning quietly, his head hanging forward. His bright copper hair was now dark with sweat—but so was Adam’s, so they still matched. “Almost there, fucker. But not yet. Still too much of a fag, Ghost; my cock tells me so. We ain’t done yet, asswipe. Lessee—yer into gettin’ choked, huh? Ok, motherfucker, lemme see if I can choke the homo right outta ya.”

Locked in a vise of physical pain, the lean pup in the trackies could only shudder and sob as the hulking alpha stud searched the room for something appropriate. Connor tried to get up, but without his arms to brace himself, he inevitably began to roll off balance as he moved—and as he started to roll to one side or the other, the arm on that side began to flex at the break, grinding bones together. It just hurt too much.

In the meantime, Adam had opened the closet and rummaged around in it. It didn’t take him long to find something that suited his needs; when he returned, he was holding two items. One was a straightstick baton, about eleven inches long. The other was a belt of webbed nylon.

“Ya ready?” he asked as he approached the traumatized youth, “Ready to live up to yer name and get ghosted?”

Connor’s battered and swollen face was barely recognizable; the arrogantly handsome punk had been beaten to hamburger. It hurt even to speak, but frantic self-preservation drove the cunt on in a vain attempt to plead for his useless life.

“Y’know,” Adam said reflectively as he stepped behind the chair and wrapped the belt around Connor’s neck, “Sir is probably gonna be the one who finds your corpse after I’ve given it the honor of bein’ my personal cumrag. Wonder what he’s gonna think; don’t you?”

Laughing, he slipped the baton under the belt and began twisting. It took a few seconds for him to twist it enough to tighten the belt around Connor’s neck, but once he had, it made a perfect garrote.

“Ok, ya worthless asswipe, only one way to get ya free of yer disgustin’ faggot lusts. Only one way to make your dead fuckmeat clean enough to be my cumdump. It’s buried deep in yer DNA, faggot—I gotta squeeze the spunk outta ya so I can replace it with my own manseed.”

The boy whimpered in fear. He’d always loved being controlled by someone else, the hot erotic danger of having another man bring him to the point of death was what made him cum. But he’d always known in the back of his mind that it wasn’t the real thing—no matter who it was, his Master or a casual hookup, he’d always known he wasn’t really gonna die. Until now.

The glassy, white-hot pain of broken bones made it obvious that playtime was over. Connor was young, healthy, and full of cum. He didn’t want to die; as bad as the pain was, he still couldn’t quite believe it—until he heard Adam’s words.

And then the belt tightened further around his throat, the nylon digging deeply into his skin, and his windpipe was squeezed closed. That tripped the trigger; as often as Connor had experienced the sensation before, this was different. This time, it wasn’t coming off. He panicked.

The lean youth attempted to lunge forward, his firm legs tensing in the glossy track pants as he tried to find leverage, in vain. His hands flopped limply, utterly useless except for increasing the amount of agony the punk was experiencing. He could hear Adam talking behind him; worse, he could see the sexy, gleeful face of his killer leering over his shoulder in the mirror.

And worst of all, he could see his face, already purple and swollen with the beating he’d endured, starting to go black. He knew the stages, he knew what to expect. And he’d see it all in the mirror; he was gonna watch himself die.

It was too much for the lithe young pup. A dark haze of terror swept over him and somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt a moist warmth spread over him as well—or at least down his legs. He wasn’t able to register the fact that he’d lost control of his bladder and that warm boypiss was trickling down inside his trackies and pooling in his Nike kicks.

As Connor struggled and thrashed, lubed by his own urine, he slid lower in the chair. “No ya fuckin’ don’t,” Adam muttered. Flexing his powerful biceps, he lifted the kid by the garrote and resettled him in the chair. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, fuckmeat. Yer gonna watch the whole show, all the way to the end.”

Sweat trickled down Connor’s face and his ginger locks, rank with perspiration, plastered his forehead. The slightest movement brought on nightmarish agony, but sheer asphyxia-induced panic was starting to overwhelm the young faggot; he grimly clung to rational thought—not in a brave attempt to figure a way out of his situation, but almost by mere instinct, as if he as subconsciously aware that he was doomed the moment he lost control.

Lucidity was a double-edged sword, though; it would take effort to avoid recognizing that he was doomed in any case—but Connor’ efforts were devoted to the most intense struggle in his life. It was also the last.

The times Sir had bagged him had been nothing like this. The tight, erotic feel of the rope or the cuffs, sometimes in his track suit, sometimes in footy gear and boots—the way he’d been left alone on occasions, Sir just watching and grinning, sometimes until he pissed himself, sometimes until the raging thumping of his pulse in his skull was overtaken by the swift pulsing of his thick boycock, pumping out gobs of cum—

—oh dear fuckin’ god no, this was nothing like that, so why the fuck was his dick so hard—

Adam gave the baton a half-turn; the belt sank in a little deeper. Not much, but it didn’t need to be; even though his trachea had been compressed to the point that air could no longer pass through it, it was by no means incapable of being compacted further.

And it damn sure wasn’t numb. In another of those moments of lucidity, Connor felt a dull surprise that he could feel the pain of the taut nylon digging into his throat and deforming his esophagus; he was in a bottomless pool of agony, but it didn’t merge, he could feel it all separately his neck his face his fingers his arms oh fuck my arms how’m I gonna get out oh shit oh fuck—

And with the realization of how seriously he’d been injured, terror swept back over him in a dark wave, leaving him to thrash and flail about in the desk chair, his piss-soaked legs kicking wildly. Panic had flooded his body with adrenaline, overriding the pain impulses—for the moment, he was numb. His legs kicked and flailed; he managed to scape one of his Nikes off, flinging it across the room, as his foot flexed and his toes curled in agony, still encased in a pair of piss-sodden no-show ped socks.

Again, Adam jerked the meat upwards and resettled it, holding in place until its struggles began to weaken. He kept a careful eye on it, wanting to make sure that there was still enough of the fag left to understand his words. The buff psycho caught a faint spark of light in the dying cockpig’s bulging, bloodshot eyes. It was just barely there, but it was enough.

Connor could barely see; his eyes were bulging horribly from his head, huge black explosions forming in his field of vision as blood vessels hemorrhaged, turning the whites of his eyes red. The frantic pounding of his pulse in his ears nearly drowned out all other sounds. But “barely” and “nearly” didn’t mean completely.

There was still enough of Connor left to recognized his own form in the mirror, jerking uncontrollably. A long streamer of foamy drool had oozed from his mouth, past his bulging black tongue, and trickled down his chin, where a long strand had trailed down to his smooth, flat belly. His face was congested and swollen, a thick puffy caricature of his arrogantly handsome countenance, with grotesquely protruding eyes.

And even though his vision was rapidly fading, the homo cunt could still see the trickle of precum oozing from the purple, pulsing head of his achingly erect cock.

And he could see the buff alpha as well; some little corner of his faggot brain still lusted over that muscle-bound torso wrapped in white Lycra so tight his large hard nipples cast shadows over his broad pecs. Wiry strawberry-blond hair spilled over the deeply-cut neck, but Connor’s eyes were drawn to the thick biceps, glistening with sweat and bulging with the effort of ending his life…

He knew he was dying and Adam knew he knew it. “I hope it hurts, Ghost,” the fully-erect, hardbodied killer hissed, “Hope it hurts a lot. You thought you deserved my dick, ya perverted piece a’ shit? This is what cocksuckin’ pansies like you deserve!” With that, he gave his improvised garrote a swift, vicious full 180-degree turn.

Connor was young and healthy; his lean and lithe body could endure a great deal of trauma, but there is a point beyond which human tissue can’t be stressed without enduring permanent damage. Up to now, the boy’s windpipe had been squeezed shut. Now, it collapsed completely, crushed beyond repair.

There was a loud wet crunch. “Fuck yeah!” Adam crowed triumphantly as the punk slut shuddered in nightmarish agony, his slim body wracked with excruciating pain. The searing pain of having his trachea and larynx crushed into a bleeding mass of mangled cartilage was too much; it would have shattered whatever was left of the pup’s mind—but nothing was left. He’d been without air too long; the brain damage was too severe.

This was the point Adam had been waiting for. He wanted to try something. He’d always like his meat fresh…

The hulking alpha quickly spun the baton in the opposite direction, loosening the garrote. He had to grab a hank of the kid’s slick coppery hair with one hand so he could jerk the embedded belt out of his neck with the other hand. Ghost—there was no Connor left anymore—convulsed rhythmically, his limbs flopping limply as his muscles responded to the erratic signals of a dying brain.

Adam tossed both the belt and the body to the floor. He looked down at the shuddering fuckmeat, considering it calmly, despite the way his huge manshaft throbbed visibly beneath the Lycra shorts. He bent down, picked the meat up, and dragged it to the bed. Tossing its torso face-down across the mattress so that its knees were on the floor and it was bent forward at the waist, Adam reached out and pulled the track pants down, exposing the smooth golden globes of the corpse’s ass. As he watched, the meat continued to shudder and tremble, the convulsions twitching and puckering Ghost’s pink fuckhole.

Now the meat was acceptable. The faggot was dead. Whatever happened, Connor wasn’t coming back—but Ghost was worthy of receiving Adam’s manhood.

He didn’t even bother to take the black and yellow Lycra shorts off. Adam just reached down and whipped out his cock and balls, stuffing the latter into the dead punk’s quivering asshole. He felt some resistance at first, a pressure on the engorged, precum-slick head of his cock, but his enormous shaft tore open the dead boy’s sphincter with minimal effort and was soon buried deep in Ghost’s warm and still-convulsing rectum.

His fluorescent yellow Nike Air Max 2’s tensed on the laminate wood floor, one on each side of Ghost’s feet, keeping the homo punk’s from slipping and spreading.

The hyper-masculine sex killer fucked his prey deeply and brutally, synching the timing of his thrusts to the rhythm of the slowly-dying meat’s convulsions, letting the pup’s death throes milk the hot sperm out of his pulsating tool. As he felt his seed starting to seethe in his puckered balls, Adam began increasing the tempo of his pumping until he knew he was within seconds of unloading; he’d saved this next move for the very end.

Placing one hand on the meat’s shoulder, he reached down and grabbed the chin with the other. Without missing a single perfectly-timed thrust of his hips, Adam jerked Ghost’s chin around backward until he was staring directly into the dead punk’s black, swollen face.

There was a loud popping sound as the first five cervical vertebrae in Ghost’s spine shattered like glass under the inexorable strength of Adam’s muscles. The abrupt trauma inflicted on the youth’s spinal column as razor-sharp shards of bone sheared through it at random sent a massive electrochemical shock throughout his entire nervous system.

It all happened at once. Ghost’s body went rigid as its muscles locked in a violent convulsive spasm. The torn sphincter was still able to tighten around Adam’s pulsating rod; in fact, the muscles in Ghost’s lower rectum collapsed in a cascading rhythm, rippling along the thick, cum-filled channel that ran up under the thick swollen shaft to the velvet-soft head. At the same time, the ginger fag’s own cock began to spasm uncontrollably as the penile muscles convulsed.

They both spewed simultaneously; Ghost, unconscious, unknowing, literally brain-dead, pumping his faggot boycum uselessly into the thick duvet cover as the overpowering alpha hosed him down internally with scalding manspunk. Adam could feel the meat’s involuntary orgasm as the muscular spasms rippled though the body and tightened the sphincter around his cock again. The sudden tightness triggered him. “FUCK!” he screamed, “Goddam fuckin’ CUNT!!”

As his huge scrotum clenched and his massive shaft spasmed, gushing out his manload in a solid spurt of cum, Adam drove his fist into the corpse’s face twice in quick succession, rendering the once-handsome boymeat even less recognizable. He felt himself pumping and cumming and cursing and pounding the meat over and over again, caught in the depths of a violent sexual release.

Once he shuddered to a pleasurable release, he slumped, shuddering and sighing, onto the meat’s still-trembling back, taking a moment to catch his breath as the last few pearly drops of cum oozed from his receding cock. When he finally disengaged from the pile of quivering boymeat, he felt relaxed and refreshed; finding his way to the bathroom, he moistened an ornamental handtowel at the sink and wiped down his dick. Tossing it into the toilet, he grabbed the matching towel off the rack and used it to swab out his reeking pits before reuniting the pair in the commode.

Adam stepped back into the bedroom and observed the scene with the satisfaction of an artist. Ghost was on his knees, bent over the bed. One foot was still tightly laced into its Nike Vapormax 97; the other seemed kind of exposed in its thin, piss-soaked knit ped sock—even now, the toes were still twitching, helplessly and vulnerably.

It didn’t matter. The thick wads of spunk leaking out of Ghost’s ravaged asshole told the story—and if they didn’t, the look of horror on his gruesomely twisted face certainly did. Adam shoved his enormous tackle back into the Lycra shorts and slipped the polyester gym shorts back over them.

As he left the room, the plastic sliding door jammed on its track. Adam kicked it out, snapping it off and shoving it to the side. The last thing he did on his way out of the condo was retrieve the magnetic card that operated the elevator and the front door. He kept the card in his hand as he got into his car and drove off, heading in a different direction that he’d arrived, just in case. His route took him over the river; as he crossed the bridge, he tossed the card out the window and had the satisfaction of seeing it wafted in his wake over the railing and into the murky depths below.

Sir arrived back much earlier than expected; the deal had fallen though and he’d seen no need to stay on. He made good time; given what he’d paid for his Ducati Panigale V4, he’d expected to. The constant vibration in his crotch had him stirred up, though; he had a lot of energy to work out on his pup when he got back. Ghost better be up for some play…

He parked in an empty space not far from the Benz; that was a good thing—it meant the kid was home. He strode across the lot, his hard, firm body tightly encased in a one-piece black leather motorcycle suit that fastened directly to his black leather AMU long riding boots, and a black helmet with a dark visor over his head.

He crossed the lobby and accessed the elevator; there were no issues with his key card. The fourth floor was quiet—as was usual—and when he opened the door, there seemed to be nothing out of place, at first. It was only the silence in the unit that seemed odd.

His voice seemed to echo in the dim flat. That was when he noticed the broken sliding panel lying on the floor. Darting into the bedroom, he was brought up short by the sight of Connor’s corpse.

Part of him had always expected this; the immature punk hadn’t known how set the proper limits to his play, and his Master had felt that one day the cunt would take it too far on his own—but this wasn’t on his own. Even from here, Sir could see that the Ghost had been strangled and raped, probably in that order.

And the only way in was with a card. There were no signs of forced entry. The stupid motherfucker had gone out to play and brought home a killer.

The thing that pissed Sir off the most was that someone else had fucked his property. It was obvious that the worthless little fuck had suffered for his wandering lust, but that still didn’t erase the fact that Sir’s property had been violated.

He needed to take it back.

Without removing his helmet, he reached up under it to the zipper at the collar and pulled it down—all the way down to his crotch. Reaching in, he pulled out his thick purple manshaft and with no hesitation at all, started fucking Ghost’s corpse. His leather-clad body bent over the dead boy, heaving and pumping, as his thick-soled motorcycle boots gave him the necessary traction.

As Sir grunted and thrust, his face, inscrutable behind the darkened helmet visor, stared directly into Ghost’s. Even though the dark purple lividity had drained, leaving the kid’s face a pale violet color, the sheer agony and suffering of the kid’s death were still clearly marked in his face.

“Ya fuckin’ deserved it, didn’tcha,” Sir grunted, knowing what a slut the boycunt was, “But yer mine, ya worthless fuck, mine, ya hear me? I’m the one who gets to use ya up and throw ya out like fuckin’ garbage!”

His taut, muscled body jerked and shuddered inside his leather biker gear as he unloaded again and again, marking the dead boy as his property.

Walking into the bathroom to clean himself up afterward, he noted with disgust the towels in the toilet. He got a clean one from the linen closet to wipe himself down before returning to the bedroom.

After a moment of contemplation, the hardbodied biker skinhead dragged Ghost off the bed and wrapped his corpse in the duvet cover. After all, it wasn’t like it was his property anyway. Lifting it in his arms, he carried it out of the condo and managed to make it down to the lobby and out to the Benz without being seen.

His first idea had been to drive over the bridge and drop the corpse in the river, even though he recognized that its sluggish flow left it less than ideal for body disposal. But the same bridge also crossed the train tracks, and that inspired him.

Pulling over to the side, Sir hoisted Ghost’s corpse out of the trunk and lifted it over the parapet. He let it go, keeping hold of the duvet cover as it unrolled and left the trackie-clad corpse to drop unceremoniously into an uncovered coal car. In the dark, it was almost invisible.

Sir headed over the bridge, but he did stop one more to toss the stained duvet cover into the scum-covered river before turning back and heading to the condo. He needed a good night’s sleep.

The next day, he changed his flight so that he’d be out of the country by evening. It wasn’t difficult. He’d only ever purchased one ticket anyway.

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5 thoughts on “Adam In Control”

JWC

Another fantastic Adam entry! I have a soft spot for Adam because we’ve seen him grow from a voyeur of violence to an experimental killer to a sadistic murderer, who takes what he wants without hesitation or shame. And what he inevitably wants is the warm boyhole of a dead fag. Connor, or Ghost, makes for a superb victim, so into the pain that he barely registers or objects to having his arm broken. I always love when Adam or Carlos or one of the other fag killers pummel their prey’s face, leaving it a ruined mess, more hamburger than handsome. The crowning achievement here, though, is when Sir, in motorcycle helmet and leathers, expresses little surprise at discovering Ghost’s abused corpse and no hesitation in violating it! So fucking hot! Maybe Adam and Sir will never cross paths, but I hope we have not seen the last of Sir. Anyone who could so perfectly make the best of a bad situation deserves some follow-up.

Update: jerked off again this morning to Sir’s violation of Ghost’s well-brutalized corpse. Besides always enjoying a bit of skinhead violence, I think I enjoyed Sir so much because he makes a stark contrast to the overt homophobia of killers like Adam and Carlos. Don’t get me wrong: I love all the gay bashing and open contempt for the fag meat usually expressed by these men, but someone like Sir, dominant and aggressive, but who takes a gay lover, makes for a nice change. None of Adam’s denial in Sir: Sir likes boys and men, and likes hurting them. Ultimately, they are disposable to him, but not before he’s taken them for a good ride. To that end, I have to say, I also enjoyed Ghost’s need to be hurt. Unlike some of your contributors, you seldom portray the meat as participating in its own demise. Their struggle to stay alive is what gets guys like Carlos off, just as their still-warm corpses is what does it for Adam. But seeing a fag who craves brutality and pain the way Ghost did was hot. It might be interesting to see one of your killers encounter a willing participant, someone who craves snuffing, who gets off on its own demise.